


if i didn't care

by soupmetaphors



Category: Mafia (Video Games)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Denial of Feelings, M/M, brief mentions of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:21:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27168551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soupmetaphors/pseuds/soupmetaphors
Summary: Paulie doesn’t sleep well without Sam. And lately Paulie hasn’t been sleeping well at all.
Relationships: Paulie Lombardo/Sam Trapani
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	if i didn't care

_If I didn't care, would it be the same?_  
_Would my every prayer begin and end with just your name?_

If I Didn't Care, The Ink Spots

* * *

Paulie doesn’t sleep well without Sam.

It’s a stupid habit he should’ve kicked when they were younger and didn’t know better— he understands that much. Years of taking turns sleeping during stakeouts, together in the back of cars after a long day at the races, in beds that do not belong to them and sometimes— in those brief moments of abstract hunger— beds that _do_ : they’ve done nothing to wean Paulie off the soft press of Sam’s head on his shoulder, his breath against Paulie’s bare neck.

And lately Paulie hasn’t been sleeping well at all.

He doesn’t remember when time decided to crack the earth beneath their feet: a year ago, two, more, perhaps, more and more, before their family took control of the city, before Tommy even waltzed into their lives.

All he understands is that time takes _everything_ ; swallows it without hesitation, without remorse, and here he sits— waiting for someone whose face is starting to become unrecognizable, even to him.

( _— unrecognizable in the way he disappears in the evenings with only a clipped goodbye, the way Paulie sees him the mornings and_ only _mornings on the bad days, a slice of the afternoons and evenings on the better ones; unrecognizable in the way the pull of Sam’s hand away from his feels like a slap that leaves his cheeks stinging for hours on end; unrecognizable in the way those cool, blue eyes seem never to meet his across a crowded room anymore_ —)

He looks at the half-empty glass in his hand, and then out the window.

The moon smiles down on the streets of Lost Heaven. Even with the windows down, he can hear the soft murmur of traffic, of late-night pedestrians and revelers making their journeys. He wonders, briefly, if it is too late to dress up, to slip out into downstairs and blend with the crowd; let his feet take him to parts of the city where they don’t know his face, only that he wants a drink, only that— just for another few hours— he doesn’t feel so _alone._

But Sam called two hours ago, telling Paulie he’d be over. And if there’s one thing he’s learned from all the time they’ve known each other, it is that Sam _always_ keeps his appointments.

Tipping his head back, Paulie knocks back the rest of his drink, ice clattering loudly against his teeth. The whiskey burns his throat, good and familiar, and he slams his glass down on the table.

 _God damn you_ , he thinks, but even as the words spill forth from his mind, he knows he doesn’t truly mean them. _Fuckin’ Sam._

Sam Trapani, the bright star, the Don’s prized boy, stoic and cold and ruthless and hard-edged.

So different from the man Paulie knows when they are alone, when it is the two of them in the car, and Sam’s hand slips to his knee, and there’s a shudder in the air between them.

( _— it’s like taking a deep breath before you jump into the water—_ )

The scream of the doorbell startles Paulie from his thoughts. He stumbles from his chair, practically tripping over his own feet in haste.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’—”

It takes a moment for him to fumble the latch open, slamming the deadbolt back and opening the door to see Sam standing there.

And Sam looks like shit.

“Christ, Sammy, what the hell happened to you?”

All his previous thoughts melt away as he takes in the rumpled clothes, the blood unceremoniously leaking from Sam’s nose, finely speckling his shirt.

“It’s nothing.” The reply presses itself out through clenched teeth, and Sam steps inside, clicking the door shut behind him. In the light, his face looks even worst. There’s a cut on the side of his face, and when he holds up his hands to ward Paulie’s worried advance, the other man can see the bruises and scrapes on his knuckles.

“ _Sam_ —”

“I said, _it’s nothing_ ,” Sam snaps, and Paulie can smell the alcohol on his breath.

Pulling out a handkerchief, he tries to wipe the blood away, and the sight of the usually pristine cloth already stained red has Paulie reaching out to grasp Sam’s wrist.

Sam’s gaze is cold enough to kill. “Let _go_ of me.”

“You’re drippin’ all over my floor, for cryin’ out loud.”

They stare at each other, silence pooling between them. Paulie tries not to blink, tries to hang on to that edge as they size each other up, as the tension in the air crackles like electricity.

“Alright.” Pulling his wrist from Paulie’s grip, Sam frowns. “Alright, do whatever you want.”

“Sit down— I’ll get some bandages.”

Paulie disappears into the bathroom, rummaging through the medicine cabinet until he finds the little first aid kit he keeps in case of emergencies. When he closes the cabinet, his reflection pins him to the spot. He stares at himself: at his furrowed brow, at the slight chew of his lips.

 _What are you doing?_ a cold voice at the back of his head asks. _Who the hell is he to come in here like that_ — _treat you this way in your own home?_

 _He’s hurt_ , Paulie tries to rationalize. _Must’ve got into an accident on the way here. Pain does funny things to people._

He should know.

Tearing himself away from the mirror, Paulie comes back to the living room to find Sam sitting in his chair, a fresh glass of whiskey in his hand. He doesn’t look at Paulie as the other man pulls up a chair, already beginning to work on his cuts.

“Mind tellin’ me what happened?” Paulie asks, risking a glance up at Sam: still looking off in the opposite direction, muscle in his jaw jumping at the question.

A moment, two, three, and it becomes apparent that he isn’t getting an answer any time soon.

He talks when he works— or, at least, he tries to, if only to fill in the silence pooling sticky between them: about how many times he saw a plane in the sky, about the new car sitting pretty in the garage back at the bar, the small things he’s picked out, things he’s noticed.

( _— about how he thinks about Sam when he’s alone at night, about the way he tries to spend as much time as he can with Tommy because once the bar closes he’s alone, alone,_ alone _—_ )

Sam doesn’t say a word. He moves when Paulie tells him to move, grits his teeth, plays the part of a life-sized mannequin to be pulled and prodded, and when he’s cleaned up, he simply stands and moves to the door, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Perhaps that’s what brings that cold voice slithering back into Paulie’s head, that first bloom of anger in his cheeks. Perhaps it’s the dismissive goodbye, the way Sam doesn’t even glance back when he says, “Thanks, Paulie. I’ll see you tomorrow, huh?”

Perhaps it’s the whiskey still burning in his gut.

Perhaps it’s the way he’s looking at Sam now, as if for the first time— waltzing back into this part of his life after so long, letting him play nursemaid until he’s sick of it, until he’s ready to crawl back to whichever bed this godawful city has left warm for him—

“Hey, Sammy, hold up a minute.”

Sam turns as Paulie crosses the room. “I’m in a bit of a hurry, Paulie—”

The _crack!_ of Paulie’s hand against his face sounds like a gunshot.

They stare at each other, incredulity mirrored in each other’s eyes. Paulie can feel himself shaking, his hand burning from the impact against the other man’s skin. He’s never hit Sam like this. Not once, not ever, not even as youngsters roughhousing in the yard.

It feels like a seal has been broken. He feels bile at the back of his throat, rising, and when he speaks, his voice is split wide with anger.

“Who the hell do you think you _are_?” Paulie asks, jabbing a finger into Sam’s chest. “Comin’ in, expectin’ me to fix you up and goin’ on your merry way?”

He is used to this— this sudden outburst of anger that has made him an unholy terror. And yet, he is unused to having it pointed like a spear against a throat of someone he loves.

“Christ, Sam, I’m your _friend._ I— I— I’m not one of your goddamn whores, so don’t you fuckin’ dare treat me like one, you understand me?”

“Y’know what— Y’know what—” Paulie stammers, unable to keep the words in. “Christ, all those nights, all those things we did— I don’t— Did I even _mean_ anything to you?”

( _— nights in the same bed, curled up against one another, back to back; nights Paulie has woken up to Sam’s arm flung over his chest; nights when all he can hear is the soft whimpers from the back of Sam’s throat as he holds his hips down_ —)

The silence in the wake of his words is deafening.

When Sam finally speaks, his words are quiet. “It’s not that simple, Paulie.”

“Not that simple?” Paulie laughs, mirthlessly. “What isn’t that simple, Sam? ‘Cause what I’m lookin’ at seems pretty clear to me.”

“I— Y’see, I—”

“I _don’t_ see. I don’t. You run around out there with all your lady friends, and when the heat’s too much, you think it’s alright to come back to me. And I let you. God damn you, I _let_ you.”

Not that it even happens often, he realizes. Year by year, losing the only friend he’s known, watching him become nothing but a face in a picture hanging on his wall. Year by year, month by month, day by day—

“Christ, Paulie, I’m _sorry_ , alright?” Sam says, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry— I— I just— I was ashamed, okay?”

“Ashamed of _what_?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. Of this, of us, of not being enough—”

“Not being enough? I should be tellin’ _you_ that—”

Another moment of sudden quiet. Paulie can feel the anger beginning to subside, regret now biting at his sides. He doesn’t know what to say, how to go on, and from the look Sam is giving him, neither does he.

But it’s Sam who breaks the lull. “Do you want me to go?”

Paulie hates himself for this; hates the way the voice in his head goes silent, the way his resolve wavers and collapses all at once just from looking at Sam’s soft frown, the way a single apology makes him feel as though it almost, _almost_ makes up for all of this.

He especially hates the way his own voice sounds to his ears when he says, “No. Stay.”

It’s so familiar to slip back into this song and dance, he finds, as he gently pulls Sam away from the door. They walk backwards to the bedroom, bumping into corners and bits of furniture as they go, uncaring of the bruises that will inevitably mark their skin anyways. Sam’s gaze has locked onto Paulie’s, and all Paulie can think of is how he is a _fool_ for doing this.

(— _a fool for letting Sam walk all over his life, his heart in the pocket of that immaculate suit_ —)

They fumble with each other’s clothes as they go; in the morning, sorting through the trail of clothes for what belongs to who will be hellish, but now they litter the floor, breadcrumbs in the forest. By the time they reach the bed, they’ve stripped to their shorts, and Paulie has his mouth latched firmly to Sam’s neck, his other hand on the small of his back.

“Paulie—” Sam murmurs, breathlessly. He shoves himself up against Paulie, and the other man can feel his erection rub briefly against his hip, desperately to find any sort of friction.

With a hiss, Paulie pulls away; gently pushes Sam onto the bed, pausing when he kneels there, watching the other man watch him. There’s a fire burning in Paulie’s stomach, and as Sam arches and whines for him, he can feel his own mouth go dry.

“Please,” Sam whimpers, eyes fluttering close. “Please, Paulie, please—”

“Please _what_ , Sammy?” His own voice is a low whisper.

“ _Touch me_.”

The urgency in Sam’s voice spurs him to move: slowly sliding his partner’s shorts off, murmuring in soft appreciation at the way Sam’s cock already leaks precome as it slaps onto his stomach.

Another familiar dance: the soft kisses trailed up Sam’s shaft, the breathless whines as Paulie takes him first in hand and then in his mouth, holding his hips down. It’s almost comforting, this steady rhythm they fall into, the creak of the bedsprings soft into the night.

Sam struggles, but Paulie is stronger— his grip on Sam’s hip is steady, and he lets go of Sam twice: once to kiss him quiet, the other to push himself higher so he can grind down on Sam, their skin separated by only inches of fabric.

“Fuck,” Sam pants in his ear, bucking up to meet Paulie’s frantic thrusts. “Fuck, Paulie— _oh_ —”

Paulie doesn’t really remember much of what comes after. Sam gasps his name the same time he calls for Sam; their hands, legs, mouths tangle together, and he doesn’t remember when his shorts come off— the world is a blur of skin and hot breath, saliva and come, and god, god, _god_ , he’s never wanted Sam as bad as he does now.

When his thoughts become clear, they’re lying in each other’s arms, sticky and sweating. His legs ache, a familiar, bitter taste lingering in the back of his throat— and Sam right there, eyes closed, breathing heavily.

Paulie wants to think of something to say: something witty, something sharp, something, something, _anything_ to fill the silence between them.

 _Please don’t go_.

For a moment, he thinks the words will come; feels them shudder against his teeth, only his mouth will not move, will not let them into the air and become too real.

“Paulie?” Sam shifts closer to him, pressing himself deeper into Paulie’s arms.

“Nothing, Sammy. Go to sleep.”

“’M sorry— about earlier. About—”

“We’ll talk about that in the morning.”

Sam says nothing; Paulie looks at him to find that he has already drifted off to sleep. The words slink back down, find their familiar nesting place in his stomach. _That’s tomorrow’s headache_ , he thinks, as he tucks Sam gently under his chin.

Paulie doesn’t sleep well without Sam; but now that he's here, just for this one night, Paulie thinks he might.

**Author's Note:**

> not as explicit as i could have done, but this was sitting in my drafts for weeks and it still gets the explicit rating just in case. also, apologies for the ending being rushed. hope it was still enjoyable, anyways!


End file.
